


The Word

by sleeplittlechild



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Akielon Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 09:03:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10461078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeplittlechild/pseuds/sleeplittlechild
Summary: Damen begins using a new word around Laurent - that Laurent doesn't know.(A 5 + 1 story)





	

**1.**

When he firsts hears it, Laurent’s not even sure it’s a word. It’s one of the few lazy mornings the two have, which makes sunrise too early to be awake. The room is warm with sunlight and Laurent’s legs are still tingling from the night before. Five rounds of love-making, with a special sixth one where Damen took him apart with only his touch. Laurent is sated and happy and much too comfortable to move.

Damen, apparently, recovered enough thought to waken. Laurent sees a fuzzy outline of him, sitting up on his elbow and looking down on him. Laurent smiles, he thinks. Thoughts race through his mind: thoughts like ‘Damen’ and ‘wonderful’ and ‘grateful that he is mine.’ The thoughts are silly and nonsensical and so he buries them like he buries his head in the pillows. Damen laughs and Laurent feels his hand sweeping down over his back. Laurent groans and his skin breaks out into gooseflesh – there is no breeze. He squirms away from the touch and arches into it, too.

Damen still laughs. “Still so sensitive, Afvisitu?” He doesn’t take away his hand, laying it flat between Laurent’s shoulder blades.

Laurent turns his head and glares (kind of) at Damen. “The barbarian treats his lover like a door to be barged down. The door is tired.” It’s not the best insult he could come up with, but it had been a long time since Laurent could sleep in. His brain wasn’t fully awake either.

Damen is leaning close. He feels the warmth of him, his body, his breath. “I certainly didn’t hear the door complaining last night.” Kisses and love-bites make their way down his throat. Damen strokes his thumb across his shoulders and Laurent hears another groan – possibly from himself.

“Well…the battering ram was quite impressive. For what it was.”

Laurent didn’t realize he had closed his eyes until they were wide-open. He was suddenly on his back, Damen locking him in place with his arms. Brown eyes met blue and mischief gleamed equally in both.

“You are being mean again, love.”

“Me? I thought we were talking about a door and a ram.”

Damen smiles, all teeth like a predator, and a new bout – a first or a seventh? – of biting and moaning and declarations of love begins as the warm sunlight fills the bedroom of the Artesan kings.

Damen whispers into his ear “Afvisitu” as Laurent clings to him. But even then, Laurent isn’t aware of it, as everything goes white.

**2.**

When the day actually begins, it’s an easy one for the most part. Laurent walks the market grounds, listening to the vendors’ requests and complaints, offering what help he can. Every now and then, he sees Damen, working with the soldiers and teaching the newest recruits how to fight with a horse. He gives no notice, but Damen grins at him.

The sun sets and the market turns quiet. By the time the square is lit with torchlight Laurent sits out on their balcony. The air is both warm and crisp and feels pleasant on his skin. He hears heavy steps entering the bedroom. “Have one of the horses escaped the stables? I wonder how he could’ve made it all the way to my chambers.” The words have no bite: He knows Damen does it on purpose so Laurent won’t be surprised at his touch, just as Damen knows he knows.

“How was the market, today?” Damen stands beside him, gazing down.

“Are we farmer and wife? Do you expect me to gossip about the cabbage man and the spinster?”

“If it pleases, Afvisitu.”

Laurent is more focused on the implication that he is a simple farmer’s wife than the name he doesn’t know the meaning of. He glares at Damen and strides off of the balcony. Damen laughs and hugs him close, murmuring sweet nothings and apologizing with kisses.

**3.**

Damen says the word again and again and Laurent has to wonder what the word actually is. He’s certain his tutors never used it. When Damen was teaching him, it never came up before and it hasn’t since speaking with the Akielon people.

A thought crosses his mind late at night and Laurent’s face breaks into the naughtiest of smiles.

It must be a dirty word.

Damen (the blunt man that he is) could never contain his want for Laurent. Not even in words. Not that Laurent would ever want him to. He enjoys being wanted, being desired physically. He moves closer to his sleeping husband that night, falling back asleep to steamy dreams.

Except he says it in front of Nikandros.

The three of them stand in the drawing room of the Veretian castle. Maps and treaties are scattered and models lay out to describe the wares of each neighboring country. He and Nikandros have been arguing – bickering, really – for the last few minutes. The pretense is over the best silk route, but truly Laurent just loves to see how red Nikandros can make his face. And it makes Damen laugh.

“Not giving an inch, are you Afvisitu?”

Nikandros’s head whips to stare at Damen and Laurent looks at Nikandros. The look on his face – it’s not scandalized or appalled. It just looks like genuine surprise. Like he wasn’t expecting it, but he isn’t horrified at hearing the word spoken in polite company.

Alright…not a dirty word.

Laurent clears his throat, bending over the table to reach a model. His long hair makes a curtain between him and Damen and he takes that to cool his cheeks. “Patras is rich in silk-worms and grain. Charls has settled there – it would do well to make a silk treaty with them.”

Nikandros recovers, nodding absentmindedly, and making a note in a large book. He doesn’t even seem to realize Laurent has conceded. Laurent certainly won’t point it out. He looks back at Damen after a moment and he is smiling. “Afvisitu, huh?” He says in Akielon. “I suppose so.”

Damen laughs again and claps his hand on Nikandros’s shoulder.

**4.**

Laurent sorely does mean to find out what The Word means, but things are very busy when one is King.

There are more important matters than The Word going on that require Laurent’s attention. There is the matter of remaining tensions between citizens, resolving trade matters when one country has an embargo the other does not. How to decide which goods become legal and which ones don’t? Things are very busy when one is King.

The Word doesn’t go away, no. And every time Damen calls him it, Laurent swears upon the sun thrice, the moon twice, four times the earth, and one time the stars that he will learn its meaning. He scourers the palace library for books on Akielon language, but as of until recently Vere and Akielos were enemies, there is not much beyond a basic comprehension. So far, he knows it is not a swear. It is a noun, a name, but not the word for ‘husband’ or ‘spouse’. And apparently, even though he has heard it nowhere in the market, it is something Nikandros could pick up in a moment.

Days pass like this, facilitating between regal duties and personal study. Damen accompanies him when they are free, stealing kisses and making idle (intimate) talk. He is there when Laurent is convinced moonlight is fine light to read by. He pulls Laurent from his study, wrapping about him all arms and legs and telling him to sleep. Laurent humors him – undresses and lying down – but his mind is still whirring with thought. Damen accepts this and holds close. He kisses him and says, “Good Night, Afvisitu.” before falling asleep.

Laurent doesn’t know when he falls asleep himself. He knows when he would like to be awake, though. And it’s right now.

He’s dreaming about screaming. About blood-shed and secret schemes and poison disguised as aphrodisiacs disguised as water. He dreams of a young voice yelling about abandonment and betrayal, no matter how much he apologizes. He dreams an older voice belittling him, calling him a child (a pretty child) when he is very much a man. He dreams of changing chess games before he can think of a move. He dreams of hands, so many hands touching him and saying this is what he wants, what he needs, what he’s good for. He can’t move, can’t speak, can’t fight back and the hands keep touching him.

“Afvisitu.”

Laurent jerks awake, sitting upright and gasping. Damen is there beside him, speaking soft and low that he needs to breathe, “Deep inhale, slow exhale. In, out, in, out.” And Laurent can’t think of how much he appreciates it. He wants Damen closer but even by his side the air feels too close. He feels abandoned, alone but he couldn’t take it if Damen touched him. He wants…He needs…

The blanket, no doubt covered in sweat, wraps around him. Damen is very careful not to touch his skin. Laurent clings to it. He feels the weight of it and lets it ground him. He shuts his eyes and thinks of Akielon summers instead of Veretian winters. In, out. In, out.

“You’re safe, Laurent. You’re here, with me. Nothing can hurt you.”

The fog of the nightmare fades and Laurent gains his bearings. It’s an old room the palace had for esteemed guests that Laurent had converted into his personal apartment. It lay far away from where his Uncle had lived or his rooms as Prince. Damen had gone right along with the plan, discussing plans of blending Veretian and Akielon architect before anyone could contradict him. Now, his uncle’s influence couldn’t touch him. Not with Damen beside him, staying up with Laurent and knowing just what he needed. He is safe. “Nothing can hurt me.” He repeats.

Damen nods. “What can I do for you, Laurent?” He pushes a cup of water into his hand, still not touching him, and waits.

Laurent downs the cup and it’s filled the next moment. He sips it slowly now. The blanket slips down his shoulders and the cool air feels good on his face. His heartbeat slows down and his thoughts feel like they’re his again. Laurent feels in control one more.

“Hold me?”

“Always, Afvisitu.”

Damen takes the cup and Laurent shuffles the blanket around him. Damen says nothing, wrapping his arms around the clunky frame of his husband. Laurent lays his head on Damen’s chest, his heartbeat lulling Laurent even more into a state of calm. Even through the thick blanket, Laurent feels Damen’s hand trailing down his back. It is then, that night, Laurent decides he doesn’t care what The Word means. If this is what it does, if this is how Damen shows his love, Laurent doesn’t care.

**5.**

Traveling to Ios on the crest of Winter turning to Spring was not the best laid plan. Damen had traveled ahead of him, when the air was still crisp and dry. Laurent is the one to drag his horse through the heavy rainfalls and the fresh mud.

By the end of it, Laurent can barely keep his eyes open. The troupe is tired of the seven day ride, now extended to a fortnight for the multiple stops they need to make just to keep the horses upright. The castle looms like a beacon and Laurent wants nothing than to sprint to it. (To Damen). If only he could think how to do so.

Damen is, actually, there when he passes the gates. He’s rushing out with Paschal and Nikandros and suddenly, there’s Jord, too helping him down from his horse.

_No_ , his muddled brain tells him. It’s perhaps the first thought he’s had all trip. _A King must not appear weak, even when ill. He must walk tall until he can no longer walk._ His father’s strong image appears in his mind eye and he batts off all helping hands.

Damen, of course, does not let go easily. He grips Laurent’s hand and pulls his ear close to whisper. “No one is here, love. I ordered the servants to prepare the rooms when we first caught news. No one will think less of you for being sick.”

Laurent shakes his head (the world is just a second too slow in catching up.) He pushes Damen away and walks up the steps. His legs, numb after long days on a horse, aren’t used to his weight and he nearly falls. Damen reaches for his arm and pulls him close entirely. Damen’s arms wrap around him and he leans into the warmth. Distantly, he feels Damen’s hand in his hair, stroking it and moving the wet bits from his face. “Let me take care of you, Afvisitu.”

He’s tired, he’s cold, he’s wet, and he wants nothing else than to hide away in Damen’s arms, just like Damen’s suggesting. So he nods and falls asleep.

**+1.**

Laurent wakes up to a proper Ios spring, with the sun shining but a cool air flowing through the air. He wakes up under mountains and mountains of blankets, salve spread across his chest. He’s only minutely annoyed at the fact that he’s sick and more by the fact that Damen isn’t there beside him. He swipes the blankets off, all intentions pointing to finding the thick-headed, stubborn, foolish –

“Oh, you’re awake.”

The doorway of the King’s chambers is pushed open, with Damen helping a maid with a bowl of broth. She directs him to the tray beside the table and together, they clear the salve and water basin. She whispers instructions that Laurent’s too muffled to translate and leaves. Damen walks her to the door before turning on him. “Please don’t tell me you plan to work today.”

“How long was I asleep?”

“Only through the night.” Damen approaches the bed, sitting with one leg tucked beneath him on the bed. “You haven’t missed much. How do you feel?”

“Uncomfortable.”

Damen laughs. “You sweated most of the fever out last night. You must be tired.” Damen pulls back the covers, fussing with the pillows like he expects Laurent to climb back in. There is much to do in Ios – and only some of it includes a bed. Laurent doesn’t want to spend it all being sick.

“If you won’t do it for me, please do it for your country.” Laurent raises an eyebrow. “If you won’t rest, Paschal will have my head and Nikandros will have to lead.”

Laughter bubbles out of Laurent and Damen knows he’s won. “I suppose I have no choice.” Despite the shift sticking to his skin in the breeze, Laurent climbs back in and lets Damen cover him. Damen is smiling, so Laurent tries to glare at him.

“Do you have strength to drink or would you like me to feed you?”

“I am not a child.” Laurent knows he is pouting like one, though.

Damen moves the pillows and helps Laurent into a sitting position that keeps him covered for the most part. “Of course not, Afvisitu.”

Laurent’s bottom lip finds its way between his teeth. He worries it and bites at dead skin as Damen brings the broth to the bed.

“What does that mean?”

“Hmm?” Damen raises his eyebrows, stirring the settled vegetables and only half-listening.

“That word. You’ve been calling me it for months – what does it mean?” Damen only stared at him for a long moment. He didn’t seem to realize what Laurent was even talking about. He felt his cheeks heat up and blamed it on the fever. “Afi-seetu?”

Damen stared again and suddenly he was grinning. “Ah, Afvisitu. Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t have heard it before. It’s a proverb – we learn them in childhood, but rarely use them.”

“What does it mean?” Laurent insisted.

Damen placed the broth aside, moving closer to Laurent. “It used to describe something that requires terrible effort,” he cupped Laurent’s face, stroking his thumb along his cheek, “but will yield rich rewards.”

Laurent didn’t know what to say. In all sense of the word, he was stunned. Damen’s love for him – he could feel running through him up and down, with just one word.

“You’re blushing, love.”

“It’s the fever.” Laurent said automatically. He broke the stare, biting at his lip for a completely different reason now. “You make me sound like sculpture.”

Damen laughed. Warm lips press against his neck and Laurent moaned. Neither of them spoke, but it was a comfortable silence they didn’t want to break anyway. The soup forgotten, Laurent laid down and let Damen love him the way he always would – gently, warmly, and with all his heart.

**++1.**

“I suppose I should have a name for you.”

“Only if you want to. I do appreciate your other names – barbarian, idiot, oaf, dumb – ”

“Paiprevis.”

“Paiprevis…what does that mean?”

“Pleasantly unpredictable.”


End file.
